


The Little Green Pill (A Cure to Remembering)

by hanledezma



Category: Short Stories - Saki
Genre: Abuse, Cliffhangers, Doctor/Patient, Homelessness, Human Experimentation, Light Angst, Medical Inaccuracies, Medication, Memory Alteration, Memory Loss, Mental Anguish, Mental Breakdown, Mental Health Issues, Mystery, Past Rape/Non-con, Post-Death in the Family, Short One Shot, Shorts, Suicidal Thoughts, especially triggers, let me know if i missed any
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-12
Updated: 2018-01-12
Packaged: 2019-03-03 19:21:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,376
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13347837
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hanledezma/pseuds/hanledezma
Summary: "You must get worse before you get better. This is how sickness goes."





	The Little Green Pill (A Cure to Remembering)

There’s a bright sunlight drifting through the sheer curtains, illuminating the dust motes circling lazily. Sunflowers wave patiently in an unseen breeze, a vision just visible through the gossamer fabric.

She stirs and stretches languidly, smiling to herself and breathing in the faint perfume of clean laundry and sharp cologne. She is alone as she rises to the window. Gently, she pulls back the curtains and gazes at the carpet of flowers, rippling as if alive, and she is content.

There was a time when she was not sure she would make it here, and she still wonders why Fate chose to reward her, of everyone in the world. Deep down, there is some part of her that protests. She is not worthy of the universe's kindness.

Pausing in her morning routine, she briefly thanks some, any, divine creature for her fortune. It has been a while since she has believed in any sort of deity, but she tries to acknowledge her luck, and praying reminds her of a simpler time. It reminds her of people she used to know.

Brushing her unruly hair from her eyes and throwing her covers back, she shifts onto her toes and stretches once more before heading to her humble kitchen. Absently putting on a pot of coffee, the smell of morning begins to permeate her house, and she ambles about for a pencil and paper. Today, she will go grocery shopping. Truthfully, her cupboards are more bare than she likes, and she has to shove down the vague panic that the idea of hunger always strikes in her.

Her small coffee pot rumbles loudly as it attempts to slurp down the last of the water in the reservoir. She reaches up to the top shelf and grabs the soft green mug teetering precariously on the edge. The stretch cracks her back from the base to her shoulders, and she sighs in satisfaction. After she finishes pouring her coffee, black, into her mug, she leans against her counter. The heat from the cup seeps into her hands, and sipping, she welcomes its bitter taste.

It is mid-April. She wonders if she is going to be caught in a midday shower on her way home from the market. It’s a long walk, about three miles there and three miles back, but one she usually makes once a week, and it’s good for her health. That’s what her doctor says, anyhow.

Her doctor has said lots of things, and if she’s honest she is not sure that she believes all of them. For instance, he has said that the sun and the moon aren’t alive, and they certainly aren’t in love (but she guesses he hasn’t seen the way they kiss at dusk and dawn). Their love creates life, art, a sense of belonging. This is something she knows.

Other things aren’t so certain. For instance, when the doctor tells her that it wasn’t her fault, she finds that she can still see the flash and hear the bang, and some days she doesn’t recognize her own scream, but that's okay. She's okay.

Most days she finds she’s more okay than she is not, and the doctor says that’s an improvement. She would have to agree. She is not hungry anymore, and she is not wandering the streets looking for salvation. Those days were dark because she found that when she was forced to scavenge for scraps left from humanity’s kindness, she was often hungry.

On the days that she isn’t okay, it is usually because the little green pill is making her feel a bit funny, and the flowers outside seem to be scratching at the windows, begging to be let in. They are screaming at her in all different languages, and she is crying because she doesn’t know what to do. She used to be brave, but the little green pills make her feel young and small, and on bad days, she isn’t quite sure why she is living anymore, and the mirror in the bathroom seems to agree with her.

The mirror is the meanest; he sneers and snarls and reminds her of a man that took what he wanted and left. But today is a good day, and she is determined to make it to the grocery store.

Lately, the little green pill has been making her forget. She is not sure when she last went to the grocery store, but she remembers that the trees had captured her and refused to let her go for hours when she tried to cross the forest to the main road. She was in bed for a few days after that. The little green pill makes her forget.

...

Ambling outside, she draws her coat tightly around her. It had taken her a little while to get ready. She had forgotten where she had placed her shoes, and her socks bit at her fingers when she tried to pull them on. But still, she pushed through because today is going to be a good day, and she cannot let them know that she is afraid. The doctor said that she has to tell them who the boss is. Honestly, she is not sure who the boss is, but she knows that if she stops taking the little green pill then she will remember something that she wants very much to forget, and that is why she tells them, “I am the boss.”

Humming to herself, she trails down the well-worn path to the store. Being secluded from the town is good, the doctor says. There is no way to be sure what she is capable of. She has been through much, and while it is not her fault, it is best that she is not set off by any neighbors. She has been through a lot.

The flowers are kind today, they seem to be beckoning her, wrapping themselves around her ankles with soft caresses. She feels in her pocket for her grocery list. It is there. She has not forgotten.

The grocery store has all of the things she could need and more, and _tonight for dinner_ , she muses, _I will make mac-and-cheese_. She is reminded of the soft orange of processed cheddar cheese by the daffodils around her, lifting their smiling, fragrant faces to the air.

There is barely a cloud in the sky, and its blue hue is bright, melting into the sun. She squints into the light and feels a calm energy pour from it. Her face drinks in the warmth, and her face softens into a smile. Today she will not think of the story. Except. Now that she has thought _of_ the story, she can’t stop thinking about what she isn’t supposed to be thinking about.

The doctor made her write it all out, so she could face the story better, but she finds that remembering it makes it worse. The doctor gives her another little green pill when this happens and reminds her that she must get worse before she can ever get better. This is how sickness goes.

...

Once upon a time, she used to be hungry and homeless. Her father had left to some unknown land where there was lots of alcohol and drugs, and she's sure he was very happy. Her mother, however, was very sad, and after several attempts, died. She remembers her mother the most. She loved her mother more than any average person should love someone. Especially someone who is well acquainted with the idea that everyone leaves, eventually.

As a girl, she had been told often that she was beautiful, and she supposes there is some merit to this notion. But the streets are not kind to anyone, and she resorted to things that she promised she would never do. Vaguely, in the back of her mind, she still wishes that she could have grown up to be a princess. She supposes it doesn’t matter anymore.

During the time of the accident, she had been careless. After eating a hearty meal from an old Chinese dumpster, she had sauntered past an elite bar. She had worked there, once, and one of the men departing must have recognized her. Shouting lewdly, he began to advance upon her. Brimming with her good fortune, she didn’t take the threat as seriously as she should have, and she was wearing her best outfit: new jeans and a soft, beautiful long-sleeved top.

She supposes it’s probably her fault.

He followed her into her alley, a dark, wet alley with trash lining the corners. Her home. She was alone; she usually was. He smelled of vodka tonic and bitter limes. He smelled of expensive cologne, and his sweat stained his silk button-up top. It was blue.

In another life, she would have thought he was handsome. In another life, they might have fallen in love. This was not another life. Muffling her screams with his hand, he pushed himself on her, and ripped her clothes off. There was no romantic notion that he was her first time; she had done what she needed to do to survive the streets, but she was dry and unprepared and when he entered her, she felt the muscles deep within tearing. She knew there would be blood.

After a while, she stopped screaming. No one cared enough to hear, anyway. It seemed to last years, and after he was done, he left her piled on the alley floor, boneless and bleeding. He patted her cheek, zipped up his pants, and walked away. This signified the end, but she laid there a long time. She did not cry. She had no tears. She supposes it’s probably her fault.

Her next full meal found itself back in the dumpster, and that was when she felt the first premonition of doom entering her mind. She knew, deep down, that something was growing inside her, but she was determined to ignore it as long as possible. She did not want to remember that it was _his_.

(The doctor usually pauses her at this part of the story and tells her it wasn’t her fault. He tells her that she could have gotten pregnant anywhere, that it might not have been **that** man. This makes her feel worse.)

On the day of the fifth month, she struggled to get up. It was getting colder and her back screamed with the weight of the unborn child and the hard concrete she had slept on. Tiredly, she scrubbed at her eyes. She did not notice the car coming until it was too late, and she only made eye contact with the driver a split second before everything went black. It was **that** man, and his mouth was opened in a silent scream. She doubts that he remembered her, but she felt some savage pleasure at seeing his terror. This was the last thing she thought.

When she woke up in the hospital, there was a woman in a suit explaining something about an estate and a large sum of money that would be given as compensation. She does not clearly recall the details, and she could not tell you what the woman looked like. She only knows that she looked blankly down at her belly- her small, empty, slight belly. She did not mourn. She did not know how, but she had loved this small thing more than she had loved anything else, more than the average person should love something. Especially someone who understands everyone leaves, eventually.

...

Anxiety begins to well up in her as she continues along the worn path to a road. The sky seems to have darkened, and the flowers are scowling at her menacingly. Peonies, tulips, chrysanthemum, and lilac all gaze at her with accusing eyes. Dazed with the intensity of her flashback, she realizes she does not have a little green pill. She starts an almost run along the dirt road, her haste a side effect of remembering too much.

She must get worse before she gets better.

She needs to get food.

She must get worse before she gets better.

She must not remember.

She must get worse before she gets better.

Nodding to the flowers and taking on a respectful, innocent gaze, she speeds through the forest. She is almost to the main road, and then it will be half a mile before she gets to the store. The trees are whispering around her, and she is sure that she can hear them saying her name. A small, clear brook bubbles in the distance.

Today is going to be a good day.

Almost sprinting now, she can see the road in the distance. The doctor told her to take it easy, but the strain to her stitches is a welcoming burn that cuts through her dream-like haze. She does not want this to turn into a nightmare. She tries to tell herself that the flowers are a side effect of the medicine, but suddenly she cannot remember what the medicine is for or why she is taking it. She cannot remember where she is going, and then she is falling. She is falling, drifting away from the Earth and looking down at her body with a disinterested sort of surprise. She is bleeding, which is strange because she doesn’t remember how that happened, and she has a knife in her hand, which is strange because she can’t remember bringing one with her. There are flowers all around her that have been slashed and are dripping with her blood, and there is a long gouge in a nearby tree. She cannot remember why she is in this flower field, but despite the damage, it looks beautiful.

The sun is shining in the clear blue sky, and she wonder how she obtained such a beautiful life. Her doctor would be proud, and in fact! She can see him standing right there! In front of her. She looks in his outstretched hand and sees a little green pill. Smiling, she takes it and swallows it down. Closing her eyes for a small nap, she hears his voice carrying away in the breeze, “Don’t worry about the flowers. You must get worse before you get better.”

This is how sickness goes.

**Author's Note:**

> Feel free to leave feedback! I am always looking to improve. Thank-you for reading!  
> H.


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